Early Times

By Stephen Harris

This is an adventuresome, humorous story of a father and son that takes place in yesteryear of Florida. The story entails fishing tales, fish tails, hunting, and wild, unbridled revelry. Of course, there is a spiced or spiked flavor of a wee dram of spirits to accentuate the frolic and comedy of the characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781639857593

Stephen Harris

Stephen Harris is an east coast/Toronto-based photographer specializing in food, interiors, and lifestyle stills. He enjoys creative collaboration with clients of all types who seek depth and meaning in photography. When not behind a lens, he is comfortably nested with his wife and kids at their restored farmhouse in Orwell Cove, PEI.

Book preview

Prologue

In early years of the twentieth century, circa 1920s, our father, with his parents, moved to the Florida Gulf Coast. My father’s medical practice included a new patient who was a retired US Army colonel of the Medical Corps. His daughter was soon to become my mother.

After the appropriate courtship, wedding, and all the necessaries, the community of Sarasota and surrounding countryside was blessed or maybe challenged with their three sons. This is a story of the setting of those Florida adventures and, more specifically, the impact in the eyes, mind, and soul of one of those boys and his father’s influence and guidance but, just as truthfully, the mischief and shenanigans witnessed by family, friends, and nearby Florida Crackers.

The many changes from a mere one hundred years to today’s Sarasota’s attractions—including the world-famous beaches, the fine-arts community, and the joys and entertainment of the Ringling Brothers’ Greatest Show on Earth—are now all cataloged in the history books or just possibly in the memories of a few ole curmudgeons the likes of this writer.

The Ringling Brothers’ circus has closed. The founding artists of the Ringling School of Art have since passed on to our Lord’s painted canvas in the heavens. Those once tranquil and pristine beaches have since been enveloped into a concrete corridor of condominiums, not-so-fast restaurants or eateries, and parking lots filled from the nomadic tourist traffic, which is slowed by an inordinate number of vendors in their tiny T-shirt shops, with exotic suntan oils, gift-wrapped painted coconuts, plastic or Styrofoam noodles for children to float, and/or other assorted beachwear and novelties.

The beachwear adorned by the visitors to the shores of the Gulf of Mexico would certainly give alarm or repel any passing swimming denizen of the shallows. Most probably, even the jellyfish or the stingray would fear these foreign feet and present a challenge to their habitat.

When we preview the history of events and time, some may look on those times in a perspective that may differ from others. Perspective can be captured like the vision through a pair of binoculars. But it depends on which end of those binoculars you look at the passing scene. The prophets may tell you, The larger lens or The smaller. Could it be depending on what size of eyeball you have?

My memories of those years that encompass the forties and fifties or my early childhood with my father will never leave me. Some of those times could possibly be a little cloudy in spots. But those were only a few, for I will always cherish the memorable gift of those times. Someone once said, Old age comes too fast, but wisdom comes too late.

I would add that my father’s wisdom never left him. Maybe over the years of growing up, his walk could have slowed somewhat, but his mind and guiding hands still managed to keep me out of the jaws of imminent peril.

Although there were more than a few close skirmishes, which have become part of this story, I would add that, over time, good memories are never erased and are always nearby. This is such a story…

Introduction

This is a story of a father’s life and times. It is about his family, friends, and memories left with his sons, most especially this writer. There is little question in my mind that what he shared and gave us all would be reflected in our future and, in so many ways, in our thoughts and actions.

Some would recall, those who may remember, that he was the master. One may argue that he was a master without a masterpiece, but he was the master of raconteurs. Although this book reflects primarily on his various extraordinary feats and tales, I ask the reader to realize he was an accomplished and noted physician in the community. It would appear at first glance that the glorious works shared within these pages are no more than just fantasy and the bizarre imagination of one simple soul. This story is not just about those feats and fables but also about memories that will remain with a few.

Others may argue for what and why would this story be told. It is simply because these are specifics and happenings, or in the words of another great raconteur, "Erga megala te kai thomasta [Great and marvelous deeds have their share of glory]."¹

As a principal character in this story, I confess I am both prejudiced but tearfully objective on some issues and the unique characteristics of my father. My memories of this man are powerful, not just in the sense of his impact on my life but also for what he did as a servant to and for many of his friends, his medical colleagues, his family, and his many associates who looked to him not only for a medical purpose but also for some sage advice and counsel.

As one of the sons, I had some interesting and valued time with him when he gave us many moments of vintage wisdom and those special somethings a father can only provide to his sons. That said, I must also say he had his moments when his intemperate soul and dominant character would be released on those close to him. I am not alone, but there are still a few of us around who remember those moments too.

But this is about the good times and the hilarious and bizarre times. Some of those most valued memories were in the times we were at fishing camps or on hunting trips when his close fishing/hunting friends were sitting around playing poker and telling stories or, more than likely, telling assorted lies, tall tales, or some extraordinary adventure that, for the casual listener, were beyond comprehension. A few stories, maybe more than a few, were inconceivable, but the more unimaginable they sounded, the more realistic or truthful they were. Of course, what made them so hilarious was that every time the story was told, a few more characters or oddities were added that gave an enrichment of pure literary gold to a simple tale for the common and bizarre.

One of the more admirable characteristics of my father was his ability to use his wisdom as a doctor, a father, and a trusted adviser tempered with his cautious reserve in judgment. He was a good listener and a more-than-capable teacher of most anything a young boy was curious about or in search of and for answers.

I don’t remember him helping me with my homework, but there were countless times he would sit patiently with his sons in show-and-tell and hands-on demonstrations for the basics in life. Some of those I can easily remember were baiting a fishing hook with a fat worm or maybe how to chop and cut the heart out of a palmetto palm. Another story specifically and of some hazard to the nearby neighbors and those folks on the back roads of central Florida, where both of our elementary skills of driving the car and sometimes target practice with a varmint or wayward buzzard.

I use that term driving with some reservation, a more accurate term would be with both risk to the fellow passenger or more than casual daring and more than a degree of danger to the wildlife, and the errant pilgrim in search of a future tomorrow in his life.

I think more than a few of Dad’s given variable teaching skills came from his patience with his patients. Many of those in need of medical care were more than afraid of the newfangled medicine that had arrived in the postwar years of WWII. The wise and stoic doctor would use a generous spoonful of logic, a healthy dram of common sense, and a dash of bitter aloes laced with a wee pinch of some pure grain alcohol for the trauma sustained to one’s body, soul, and constitution. On occasion, he would use a plentiful splash of bottled in bond for visible signs of an unexpected encounter with concrete or critter bites or those caustic rash abrasions to our nose, elbows, and knees or that misfire of a wayward physical encounter. I often found that in the absence of any topical ointment, the good doctor found his eighty-six proof a true cure-all for almost any medical infirmity.

This book is about the many stories and tales of wonder my brothers and I witnessed or confirmed through the friends, fellow confederates, or comrades of Dad. There are even a few from some of his family and friends who are not so flattering of and for the genteel spirit.

As is with most raconteurs or simple storytellers, the truth is in the tapioca pudding. What does that mean? It may translate to an unvarnished bold face caustic and brazen commentary that may offend the sensibilities of those precious delicate minds of the protected and simple minds of the innocent children.

Or for some of the older puritanical readers who may venture forth with a casual glance, they may find something in that the varnished truth could be stranger than some fiction. Whatever the case, past or present, it was a measure of a memorable value in my times with our father.

Chapter 1

The Early Days

Sometime long before adolescence, most probably in a child’s early formative years of infancy, the age of mischievous behavior is born. In my case, it was at the very early age of five or six months. These recollections are, in fact, true as best as my memory serves me. Many may ask, How one could remember at such an early age?

According to Freud’s theory of infancy development, specifically his analysis of psychosexual development, it is based on a series of genetically determined stages, which are relatively independent of environmental influence. At the risk of offending certain learned scholars or students of certain theories, I take exception to Freud’s thinking that this behavior is independent to environmental influence. For one, I vividly recall my first recollection of my father, and his was an environment one could not ignore. If I or someone of a lesser vigilance chose to take the liberty of disregarding my father or his immediate presence, then they would do so at significant risk. So this is part of the stage set for my announced presence.

Not even a precious child of five months. Although precious was not in my vocabulary at that point, but it sounds nice. Anyway, I was standing with some difficulty, more probably teetering back and forth. This precarious stance in my crib was fixated or looking through wooden slats at someone who later would be identified to me as my loving father. I can’t say whether my vision was fully developed for that point in my life, but I remember (my visual recollection) him in a relaxed supine position, with his head propped up in his huge four-poster double bed. It was during the early-morning hours, probably before the rooster’s alarm, most certainly before daybreak, when he would be reading the morning newspaper. This immediate habitat should be clarified as my father’s bedroom. My role at this time probably could be identified as a transient interloper.

This interloper classification is probably due to my li’l younker behavioral characteristics. My mother had the good sense to have a separate bedroom where she could get some rest both for herself and for the needs of my incessant attention during the balance of her daily routine.

Some of Dad’s friends called him A-B. This nom de plume was derived from a musical ditty ABCD Goldfish. This tune appeared to be popular with a few of the local doctors in that day. But others just called him Ted or, on some more-formal occasions, Doctor. We called him Dad, not Daddy or Pop, but lovingly Dad. In other more-formal moments, we called him Sir.

Some of his not-so-close friends called him many other things, but these were expletives that were certainly foreign to an infant of five or six months. Which brings us back to my first vision and recall of my father?

I am sure he was attempting to grasp the current affairs from the newspaper of those late autumn days in 1943, but I was not about to let my presence go unnoticed. I tried the usual baby antics of crying and screaming at the top of my lungs, all of which to no avail.

For he was a seasoned father of three sons and apparently had experience in this type of behavior before from my elder brothers, certainly, this tantrum-type exhibition was not working. Stronger action was necessary.

Unbeknownst to the casual observer, sometime during the evening hours, I had secreted in the folds of my crib’s satin sheets three rather large torpedo-shaped deposits of fecal excrement. This was a feat of some dexterity, for they had arrived in my diapers. And I can only guess I found them to be both cumbersome, bothersome, and most certainly of great annoyance and displeasure to my simple creature comforts, notwithstanding the foul odor permeating the immediate area.

Having mastered basic or rudimentary skills in delivery systems, I chose to air-express the fecal matter to my father via an overhand pitch. I was pleased to find that this method of delivery found its mark, dead on target, in the middle of my father’s newspaper, with a resounding splat!

How would one describe the singular sound of splat? I think it probably sounded somewhat akin to that of a large spoon full of mashed potatoes landing on a snare drum… I was not sure, since I never tried it, i.e., the potato-drum trick. But it was just a wild guess…

Of course, he did not share the same apparent glee that I was demonstrating at that moment. On the contrary, I believe he became quite vocal in his displeasure, threatening my mother with varied sorts of action. However, the incident was closed with my mother taking the situation in hand, literally. Upon reflection, this was one of a few incidents that I recall in my earlier years, and it was one that I remember with some detail. I know there may be at least one reader who would challenge the authenticity of this rather explicit tale; however, I will attest with vigor to its truth and/or the more explicit veracity.

One of my father’s more notorious characteristics was his craft in the art of storytelling. This craft had been so refined over the years that tales of fiction became either legends or historical documentary for those students of classical history or, more specific, the readers of Herodotus who, in his early volumes, described the term erga megala, which he defines as glorious and marvelous deeds. It would become embarrassing to the point that my brothers have chosen to think of this specific talent noted for Dad as embroidery of the narrative.

In my own case, I elected to believe these accounts of various feats in reliance on the precept that What strange truths lay in the cloak of fiction? Some would believe that these tales were beyond the scope of imagination or fabrication or distortion. But there were many souls who walked in step with this gentleman of the medical arts community, and a few wore the vestments of the Christian church faith or even held credentials of the law of the land or held high office in notable charitable and civic groups. But I can say with some authority that he kept his distance or a polite arm’s length from some of those politicians or other persons of a suspect character.

Chapter 2

Heritage

My father, in those early days of Sarasota, was one of the seven doctors who served the community. Their offices were in the old Commercial Court building; a few others had their medical practice in their homes. These physicians were a unique and close-knit body from the medical community. In those early days of local medicine, the medical practice was an honored profession, without the interference of government or large special interest groups that would fail to serve or understand the needs of what we identify today as health care.

As a small boy, I could remember visiting my dad at the Commercial Court office after a routine visit to the family dentist, whose office was on the first floor. Paul, the dentist, happened to be one of, if not my dad’s closest friend and confidant. These stories come alive with the cast of characters who joined Dad in our adventure trips and shared our times together. Paul was one of those principal characters who shared in the mischief with my dad. The reader may have noticed by now how I have freely used the term mischief. This is intentional, for to classify it in other terms, I would be forced to confess up to possibly more than a simple misconduct but something bordering on injustice, transgressions, indiscretion, or maybe a reproachable deed only to